


Vertex

by squirrellysemantics



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirrellysemantics/pseuds/squirrellysemantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where paths cross, so too can they diverge in a myriad ways.  </p>
<p>A young Shepard leaves the Tenth Street Reds behind to scour the streets, on the cusp of a decision that will change his life completely. He meets another young man who seeks answers of his own.  </p>
<p>An mshenko based divergence from canon that begins prior to ME1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some revisions to chapters 1 and 2 made with the addition of chapter 3. A reread from the beginning is recommended before jumping in on this update.

Sun hits the horizon just right to light up the Hudson but it’s not enough to keep the chill off Shepard’s back.  A ragged skyline and a river in flames is normally all that Shepard has and the feeling of no credits and a nagging grumble in his gut is one he knows well.

There’s a difference today, though. He doesn’t need to scan the data chit clenched in the fist buried deep in his pocket to know what it says.

It’s a ticket, of sorts.

A way out of the only life he’s ever known.

Hunger makes Shepard impatient, so he cuts through Bleecker and his eye wanders, taking in the shadows of the past, when this place thrummed with life. Its pulse is long gone now, rows of brownstones crumbling under the weight of centuries. A place once belonging to artists and rich fucks with nothing better to do with their money that now lay long abandoned, its people fled to higher ground for a new life above the city once the floods came and never left.

These ruined buildings belonged to him now, his home, his _kind_ \- the dregs with its violence and filth and scars all showing that were never mentioned in polite company.

He knows the sounds of a scuffle, a fight in the darkness, knows it well, in fact, since he damn well started a fair share of his own.  But he also knows he came this way specifically because his boys aren’t meant to be anywhere near here tonight.

As much of as these streets are a shit hole, they are _his_ streets and nothing goes down without his say so.

And from the sounds of the beating going on, Shepard damn well knows he didn’t say so.

_“_ Please,” he hears some poor bastard saying, words filtering through the dank and dark since no sunlight reaches here. “I gave you everything I have.  Take it and go. _”_

Shepard snarls his recognition at the cold, soft snicker given in response. “Not just yet.”

He picks apart each and every detail before Shepard takes his first step into the alley to see it all unfold.

A wake of vultures fill the alley, four against one. Their target is a young guy, maybe not much older than Shepard himself, handsome with a bit of a baby face marred by fresh bruises and a split lip. A standard Alliance issue rucksack that looks far too worn to be his lays picked clean and discarded at his feet. Clothes of decent quality, even if they’re a little frayed around the edges.  A fresh touch of sun colors his cheeks though it’s the dead of winter and there’s no fear to him though two of the little cowards have him pinned to a wall.

That alone marks the man as not from around here.

It’s an unwelcome surprise that the leader of this pack is a human shit stain that goes by the name of Markos.  Shepard knows his dickery well for a brand spanking new Red. Newly anointed, this fucker went wild. Too savage, too cruel, too much enjoyment in coming back from a job soaked in blood that wasn’t his. This guy’s usual M.O. kept him running solo but tonight -

Guess he’s made some friends.  

A blade appears and it’s only now that the victim’s eyes go wide.

Markos makes a show of his knife and coos a warning at renewed struggles, point of his blade dimpling the soft skin over his victim’s palm. “Hold still, pretty boy. Don’t make me take your whole hand instead.”

A fingerprint isn’t what Markos is after, not when a simple print scanner is all you need to gain access to every single scrap of data about a person in half the time. Raid their accounts and you’re done. It was never about the credits. It’s the fear he elicits that keeps Markos going, reaping the despair he sows when he carves away flesh.

But in this one instance, there is little outside of skin for Markos to take.

 “You don’t want to do this,” the young man says around the gravel in his throat. There’s a measure of pleading in this but it’s not entirely clear what the guy’s pleading for.

 “Like hell I _don’t_!” The suggestion makes Markos reach for his feral anger and Shepard lets himself step forward, his heart beating its way out of his chest.

“Can’t get your rocks off shanking little old ladies anymore, Markos?”

Every eye turns on Shepard so he fills the alley with his contempt.

The response he gets is not one he is used to.

Markos unfurls his bravado in a sneer. “Well, if it isn’t little Johnny boy?”

There’s a nervous little titter from the pack and the rise of hackles prickle the skin on Shepard’s neck.

“Get out of here!”  The shout catches Shepard off guard but the victim keeps at it, all the while staring Shepard down. “Run while y-“

The cheap shot Markos delivers is a blow that catches the guy just beneath the ribs. Shepard knows exactly how that feels, your diaphragm spasming, so tight that your lungs catch fire and that you’re sure you’ll never breathe again and the only thing keeping the poor bastard on his feet are the two lackeys propping him up.

Markos grasps his victim underneath the chin, ignoring the straining gasps for air to study the signs of his handiwork. “Why you here, Shepard? This guy wandered into Red territory, right? So what’s the problem?”

A smile breaks on the devil’s face and Markos finally turns all of his unsettling attention on Shepard. “Though word on the street makes me wonder if the Reds ain’t your boys anymore.”

Shepard goes very still, the tiniest of data chits weighing down his pocket.

It doesn’t go unnoticed and Markos savors landing his second sucker punch of the evening. “Whatsa matter, Shepard?  Gettin’ tired of sittin’ on your throne while the real Reds get their hands dirty?”

Markos laughs from a deep and ugly place. “Walk away, little Johnny. You talk a big game but you are on your way out.”

Does Shepard really need this fight?  The chit in his pocket reminds him how close he is to escaping.

He counts slowly, taking measure by the numbers.

_One_. 

One minute in either direction, a different route home and Shepard would have known none of this. The crime just one more statistic for the cops to mark as unsolved in their ledger.

_Two_.

Two idiots holding up their victim are distracted, grips loosening as they mindlessly gawk, eager for a fight. Eager to watch, maybe.  Not so eager to be in one.

_Three_.

Three days. Three days is all Shepard has until he gets to leave this shit hole behind and never look back.

Four feet separates him from Markos and Shepard watches the psycho sit back on his heels blathering on, brandishing his blade like the fool that he is.

_Five_.

The fifth man here is the hardest to read. He sits in the shadows behind Markos, saying not a word. Sweating. Pensive. Eyes shifting endlessly. _This_ one sends up red flags.

_Six_.

The stranger-

This stranger- this unlucky son of a bitch, picked at random to be robbed blind, beat up and battered- catches his eye and Shepard sees nothing in his face but determination.

The decision is made.

“You’re right,” Shepard breaks the silence with a concession that has Markos flashing his teeth in triumph.

“I _am_ getting tired of your shit, Markos,” Shepard continues, his hands slowly curling into fists. “Why don’t I give you something to remember me by-”

The heel of Shepard’s palm finds its way unerringly in the dark, a solid hit to bone and the bone yields first, leaving nothing for Markos but howls of pain and a river of blood streaming down his face where his nose used to be.

Markos flails and Shepard dances around the blade blindly seeking a target, turning to deal with the two who have the stranger pinned but finds one thing he didn’t account for.  The one he thought needed rescuing didn’t need his help with them after all, throwing his own punches left and right.  He’s quick, this guy, not enough experience brawling by the look of it but he’s seen a fight or two and it shows.

But a pleasant surprise begets an unpleasant one and Shepard is on his knees from Markos delivering an elbow to the back of the head.  He blinks through the stars, his world resolving into focus to show him looking down the barrel of a gun.

Man number five is in a full on flop sweat, clutching his pistol in a quaking grip. A bastardized Striker, by the looks of it, street modded and highly illegal.  Some of the Reds must be branching out behind Shepard’s back. Not very powerful but more than enough fire power to take Shepard’s head clean off at this distance and the fucker is far too close to him to miss.

Markos spits out a mouthful of blood and hate. “Do it _.”_

_“No!”_

A bomb goes off.

At least, that’s what Shepard thinks has happened in that split second that he’s tossed aside like a rag doll, the very air around him turning blinding waves of white. 

He comes up ready on the balls of his feet again, glad to have his head still firmly attached to his body so he can size up the aftermath.

The two idiots cower in a corner, soiling themselves as the gibber in terror and the fifth man out is a sprawled out mess against the brick and filth, gun well out of his reach.

Markos is on his ass, struggling to rise, his shirt stained red and his bluster all gone. 

“You!” he shouts, rich in horror.  “ _What are you?”_

Shepard follows the trembling knife pointing in accusation, a weapon of defense now rather than offense and what he sees-

What he sees is _beautiful_.

The young man who’d been the target of all this havoc stands alone and resolute, body encased in a blue shimmer, pure energy curling around him like a mist at his beck and call. His hands ball up into fists of blue suns that drive every bit of darkness from the alley.

It’s the eyes that get him and Shepard can’t stop watching the shift, the ebb and flow, cycling from a warm, rich brown to an icy blue and back again.

A biotic, the back of his mind tells him.

Shepard’s heard about them in news vids. Documentaries talk about them like they were some weird plant or a fascinating new insect. Never met one in person, though, not that he knew of, anyway. Kids with potential didn’t last long in these parts with no family to wonder where they’ve gone.

“You one a them!”  Markos mewls and he and his boys fall over themselves in their hurry to flee. “One a them _freaks_!”

At the word, the brilliant blue light vanishes and the alley is again blackened and full of shadows but soon there’s nothing left of Markos and his little pack but the sound of footfalls.

Shepard dusts himself off and retrieves the backpack long forgotten on the ground. He keeps half an eye ready just in case they return but his curiosity still picks up the patch neatly stitched to the bag that reads ALENKO.  He holds it up to return it to its owner but this strange stranger doesn’t take it.

“I didn’t… I didn’t hurt you did, I?” the man asks twisted up in worry.

Realization that no one has ever asked Shepard that question before nearly knocks him off his feet yet again. Simple care, simple kindness.

A simple question that speaks volumes on the ultimate measure of a man.

“No,” Shepard answers in slow contemplation. “Not at all.”

There Shepard stands, peace offering in his insistent, outstretched hand

The young man watches him just as carefully.

“Thank you,” he says softly, stoicism thrown up between them as a shield. “For this, and well… everything.” 

He tongues at the split in his lips before he continues, full of caution.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

This is not a question.

“Should I be?” Shepard asks, permitting himself a fragment of a smile. “I mean, you could have just walked away. You didn’t have to save my sorry ass back there-”

That is met with a snort of a laugh and a smile tickling at the stranger’s lips. “I can say the same of you. But don’t worry.”

The smile falters and shadows age the young man a decade as he casts his eyes to the ground. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me-“

This sigh slips from him, so full of emotion, so weighted down by sadness that something small, something nascent and undefinable tugs at Shepard to see that mouth tightening into a grim line instead.

“At least, I hope not. What I can do… it scares _me_ so I understand why it can scare _them_.”

Impulse takes over and Shepard sets a hand on a weary shoulder. “I don’t.”

Keen eyes snap up to meet Shepard, searching for… something but Shepard continues unfazed.

“Understand, that is. It’s a part of you, just like everything else. Why should it make anyone afraid-“

There’s so much Shepard wants to ask, so much he wants to say, but the loud rumble from his gut interrupts any of that.

A full, honest smile lights up the stranger’s face. “Sounds like you’re hungry. Me, too, to tell you the truth.”

The man who refused to falter against a world of violence suddenly turned quite bashful. “Maybe… maybe we can get a quick bite to eat or something.  I owe you that much, at least.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Shepard counters, honesty taking hold but he sees the expressive face fall and Shepard rushes to the finish. “But sure.  I’d like that.”

They don’t need words- don’t even need names- before they move together to find their way out of the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some revisions to chapters 1 and 2 with update to 3

The chill of a cross breeze bites hard enough to sink down right to the bone this time of night and the city is too bundled up against this interminable cold to take notice of two more souls lost amongst countless others.  What’s another pair of young men to this vast, unyielding place? So many scurry through its streets, heads hanging low, too weighed down by their own concerns and conceits to stop for a moment and simply take notice.

Shepard still doesn’t have anything more to go on than ALENKO, but this matters little in the grand scheme of things and he guides them towards a bolt hole he knows in mid-town all the same. Fuck the cops, Markos is his biggest concern right now.  Once the little fuck got a chance to change into something without piss stains down the front, he’d be on the prowl again, ready to show just how much of a psycho he really was.

Time for somewhere familiar Shepard thinks.

Somewhere safe.

Silence keeps its hooks in them the whole time even with questions burning to be asked, but the thin jackets on their backs leave them ill equipped to defend against the cold and it ends up stealing what breath they’ve got to spare. Shivers rip through them but neither makes a show of it so Shepard quickens their pace and the young man matches him, eating up the distance in an easy rhythm that keeps them shoulder to shoulder. 

The diner is _packed_. Of course it is- this little oasis of warmth that’s withstood the test of centuries remains a popular place this time of night.

The smell hits Shepard first.  Fried, fried and more fried. Not in a bad way of course and his stomach is happy to remind him that it suffers from neglect.

The din of the crowd rises above them like a flock of angry geese; chock full of college kids pre-gaming before a big night out-

_Kids_.

An unexpected laugh erupts from Shepard at the thought of him referring to anyone as that, but there’s no humor in it when plenty could call him a kid himself.

In reality, they’re all about the same age as him, give or take, but there’s something…. there’s something…

There’s something missing.

Not on their part, no deficiency of theirs by any means. Much bravado and brains to be found on these smooth faces, unlined and worry-free.  What they have in abundance is optimism in the raw, hope not yet bound by any shackle. The diner is rich with dreams, nebulous though they may be.

What’s missing is a sense of purpose and it’s in himself Shepard finds someone lacking. Any purpose he might have had eroded away long ago, worn down by untenable forces that no child should face.

There is little of that darkness hidden amongst the bright smiles and eager laughter.

Hunger leaves its mark on you when it’s at its most brutal and unrelenting, digging into you so deep that it never finds its way out. Shepard knew _that,_ knew it better than he cared to think about. A monster worming its way out of your belly, it lives as an ache that tears through what walls you have as fast as you put them up. No escape from it even in sleep, it soon drives your purpose in every single moment.

As this leaves scars, so too does constant vigilance. Never a moment unguarded, never a moment permitted to completely relax. One eye open at all times to make sure your next bit of breath in your lungs doesn’t get a knife stuck in it.

Life pared Shepard down to sinew until these hard times became the only thing he knew and through all of it, he remained alone.

Tonight reminds him of that fact more than anything. He feels for the data chit in his pocket, clutching to his one thin chance at renewal.

The body standing next to him is tense and it dawns on Shepard that the rough edges he seeks in a room full of chatter and ease may be closer than he realizes.

Perhaps Shepard is not as alone in this as he thinks, his new acquaintance mired in thoughts of his own as he takes in the crowd, trapped in his own disquiet.

There’s a story there.

Shepard stamps his feet without thinking, the tingle in his toes coming from his blood waking up from their cold slumber to remember what they were supposed to be doing, and it breaks the spell the crowd holds over them. The stranger looks back but not before Shepard catches the second of turbulence that passes over the man’s face and a thin smile takes its place.

A tight little booth in the corner is the only thing that’s not filled with hooting and honking so they weave through the clamor to claim it. They squeeze in, knees knocking into each other, legs ending in a cramped jumble beneath the tiny table.  Its small vid screen threw neon lights on their faces in its rush to proclaim the myriad of culinary delights that awaited them.

The cold has not quite yet been banished, finding the stranger a splotchy mess of pink and scarlet and Shepard rubs idly at his cheek, knowing he is much the same. 

“This is a great place to regroup,” the stranger begins, pausing to take in the room with a warming puff of breath into shivering hands. “Even if they found us, doubt those bastards would try anything in a place like this and I think I’ve had enough of getting beat up for one night.”

Guess Shepard wasn’t the only one keeping an eye out for trouble. He put a smile in his palm as he smoothed away the cold burn flushing his skin. “C’mon, give it time. The night’s still young.”

A sardonic eyebrow and a lopsided grin combine on a handsome face to concede in amusement. “Something to look forward to, then.” 

The split in the stranger’s lip no longer bleeds but it’s a target for his tongue again and he pokes and prods the wound gingerly in between his words. “You know, we still haven’t had a proper introduction and after what happened in that alley, I owe you that much at least.“

“You don’t owe me anything,“ Shepard lets out in a snort, looking up from his scan of the menu to find –

Some moments come at you in a million jagged edges and this is one of them. Shepard goes very still, trying to put it together piece by piece.

Still on the young side of twenty but Shepard’s been many things, most of which he doesn’t wish to think about.

A rough and tumble life. A thief and thug.

No, Officer. Yes, your Honor. 

Spilled blood, whether his own or making sure others did the same.

One thing he hadn’t ever done is find himself the focus of a moment of quiet contemplation, eyes looking at him- looking _through_ him- and they are now all alone in the world with the stranger sitting ramrod straight, caught on the edge of speaking-

“You boys ready to order?”

The intrusion that jostles them back to reality takes the form of a small, frazzled woman, touch pad in hand.

“Shit! I..uh-” The stranger snatches for the menu, his tongue just as harried as the rest of him as he swipes through screen after screen of options in a rush.  “You.. you order first. And get whatever you want. This is on me.”

The rumble in Shepard’s stomach likes the sounds of that.

A few seconds pass while Shepard enjoys the show and an expectant cough reminds him that all he’s done so far is stare.

He opens up to their server in a beatific smile but this fails to impress. 

“I’ll have a burger with fries,” he begins to furious scrawling. “And a chocolate peanut butter milkshake.”

“Who in the what now?”The man across from him nearly loses his eyebrows to his hairline and the menu scrolls beneath his fingers at lightning speeds. “Where did you see _those_?”

A heavy sigh reveals the weight on their server’s shoulders. “I can come back when you’re-“

“No!“ There’s touches of desperation curling the edges of this young man’s voice. “I… uh- Could I get the burger and fries, too? Could I add on a side salad?  And a French dip, but with onion rings, please and…”

He continues, eyes frantically poring over the screen before him in the hunt for more options.   Their server gapes at him in incredulity and she’s not the only one.

The list continues.

“And a pastrami on rye. And add on another one of those milkshakes.”

The server fiddles with her data pad until the bottomless stomach looks up, finally content, to meet Shepard’s bemused face. “What?”

“Is that all?” the server asks of the bottomless pit, perhaps not so sure she wants to hear the answer.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, Shepard enjoying the view as the man takes a turn for the bashful. “That’s everything.”

Shepard waits for their audience to depart but a question sits on the tip of his tongue waiting to spring once they’re fully alone. “Do you always eat more than a family of four?”

He greatly appreciates the snort he gets in return.

“I need the calories,” this ALENKO begins earnestly enough, but he turns firm, full of caution.  “It’s kind of a… a side effect.”

A thundercloud makes its way across his face and his rumble is so low that only Shepard can hear him through the cacophony.  “Of what I can do. What you saw me do tonight.”

Emotion gets packed down tight and bundled away out of sight until a sardonic grin settles onto the man’s face. “Normally, I have protein bars with me but.... they kind of got stolen.”

“Is it really that bad?” 

That question comes out much harsher than Shepard intended, but he moves quickly to recover from his fumble.

“Are people really so afraid of… your abilities?”

There that tongue comes again- flashing to wet the stranger’s lower lip as if what he needed to say is too big to come out. “In a word-”

This pause is a long one but the silence is thick with contemplation.

The answer finally comes, burning with naked sincerity.

“ _Yes_.”

Forthrightness is a precious rarity and Shepard relishes the honesty, unable to look away from the eyes that turned hooded and lost, so desperate to impart understanding.

“What’s it been?” the man’s tale continues in a soft, intimate meter.  “Barely twenty years since the first eezo exposures. It’s… new. Unfamiliar. ”

This young man sighs, aging a hundred years from one minute to the next as his eyes fixate on a point that only he can see.

“I’m part of the first generation of biotics humanity has ever seen and people… fear change.”

What energy the man has left to spare drains out of him until he withdraws inwards, his coat swallowing him up as if this would offer him some measure of protection.

“Maybe they _should_ be afraid.”

A loud clatter of glass makes them both jump, knees knocking in a painful jolt beneath the table.

“Two chocolate peanut butter milkshakes,” is all their server gets out as she delivers her burden before she is gone again.

A soft ‘whoa’ floats over the table and Shepard is glad to share in this delight. 

“You’ll need both,” Shepard says, handing over a spare straw and a spoon. His dining companion takes them sight unseen, eyes bright and hungry for the glasses before them and they both tuck in.

Thick, rich, and -best of all-enormous, piled high with freshly whipped cream with a generous helping of dark chocolate flakes on top for good measure.

This place didn’t fuck around.

Neither did they and they devolved into ravenous beasts, attacking their glasses that are half empty before either of them come up for air.

“This. Is. _Amazing_!” the young man across from Shepard extols- or at least that’s what it would have been without the words passing through a mouth full of sticky sweetness.

With the edge off of his hunger, Shepard feels his brain grinding back to life and he begins to notice things.

Little things-the clatter of plates, the shouts and smells that emerge from the kitchen in full operation, the collective dull buzz that persists out of the crowd around them.

Distracting things, like the noises his companion makes as he inhales his way to the bottom of his glass.

Smokey sighs of contentment, little murmurs of appreciation of so small a thing as if it is worth more than its weight in gold and perhaps in this very moment- it is.

This piques Shepard’s curiosity in more ways than one.

He catches himself staring again as he tracks, picking out the precise way the oblivious man fastidiously cleans the back of his messy spoon and Shepard realizes that he doesn’t care.

There’s a clink as the spotless spoon ends up sticking out of an empty glass like a silver flag of conquest. His dinner companion spots him looking and the beginnings of heat plainly makes its way up the man’s throat.

Even so, he meets Shepard eye to eye without fear. “That was delicious.  I might have to order another one of those.”

 “Be careful I don’t have to roll you out of here,” Shepard says, a laugh teasing its way out of him. 

The smile that unfurls from the face across from him has Shepard smiling back.

“You just might have t- oh good god…”  the young man starts but his eyes light up with greed at something just past Shepard’s shoulder.

There’s no time to twist to see before a large tray makes a solid thump as it nearly dwarves their tiny table. The two try to help by grabbing this and that of their meal but a cobra’s hiss from their server has them sitting on their hands.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says though it’s plain that this is the last thing she wants as she swiftly unloads her burden.  Before they get a word in edgewise, she’s off to the next pair of lunatics.

It's quite the spread. Fresh off the grill or right out of the fryer, everything is too hot to eat but that hardly dissuades them. They both find themselves with the roof of their mouths scalded from a quick snatch at fries made of molten lava but a little pain does nothing to ruin their spirits as they share a laugh at themselves and each other for their impatience.

For the first time in a damn long time, Shepard feels relaxed. At ease.

He blinks and he thinks and that fledgling bit of something he felt back in the alley stretches its wings into something warm and distinctly…

It’s not a word Shepard reaches for often but it feels right here.

Thoughts take shape from amorphous beginnings and the easy smile that his companion offers in return suggests that Shepard does not stand alone in this.

He settles in, the chill long gone. Unwrapping the scarf around his neck feels as if he’s peeling away a layer of armor, which he supposes he is.  Their food is not-so-impossible to eat anymore and he takes advantage of this any way he can.  His companion joins him in attacking their plates and Shepard is between bites when he sees the man’s face fall.

“What’s up?” Shepard asks now that it’s his turn to be too quick to talk with his mouth full.

“You’re bleeding.”

A vague gesture guides Shepard to the back of his neck to find a spot of wetness that compels him to look, fascinated by the whorls captured on his fingertips with them painted in red. Blindly, he searches for the source and tenderness brings him closer until he finds the gash up high on the back of his head.

Guess Markos had sharper elbows than he thought.

The young man picks him apart with concern. “Are you feeling okay? Any headache or dizziness? You haven’t been slurring your words- well, not yet anyway. We can-”

Someone knows their way around a concussion.  Training or practical experience? 

“I’m fine,” Shepard breaks in, a hint of a smile returning as a means of reassurance.  That he reaches for his scarf again isn’t missed, but he replaces it around his neck again anyway, feeling the spot where it’s soaked now that it cooled.

“No big deal.”    He wipes away the stains on his fingers and the hand that remained untainted leaves him more than capable finishing his meal. “I’ll take care of it later.”

For most people Shepard knows, that would be an easy out, accepted and passed over as sufficient.

Not this one, though, and Shepard can see the challenge forming on the man’s lips so he goes on the offensive.

“That reminds me,” Shepard says, the picture of nonchalance before the other manages a word. “What brought you to the best part of town on such a lovely evening?”

His deflection is easily noted and the young man counters with a laugh. “Me?  A cabbie told me there was a hostel in the neighborhood so I tried to find it. Needed somewhere cheap to crash for the night but I guess it turned out not to be the bargain I thought it was.”

The young man shifts in his seat, not as comfortable with his answer as he appeared, though he keeps going.

“I could ask the same of you,” he says.  “Where you found me is not exactly the safest place for a late night stroll.”

It gave Shepard pause, just for a moment.

Because this shit hole is his home would be an easy answer.  Or he could have gone the flippant route, claiming to be just another guy out on the prowl for some food. It would fit

The hand that still carries remnants of his blood, already gone hard and crusting to line the grooves around his nails, falls into his pocket and he realizes that those answers might be easy-

But they would be the furthest thing from the truth.

A door normally kept firmly shut, barred under lock and key for one good reason after another, creaks open on its rusted hinge and something else comes to him instead.

“I needed some air.” 

Honesty bursts through in a rush of adrenaline that begins in a nervous bobble through his leg, though there’s little room for his nonsense and beneath the table, his knee bumps against a thigh that is not his own, which helps him not at all. He wills his body to stop and while his leg listens, his heart does not, hammering a tattoo at this first bit of trust he’s permitted himself to grant in a good, long while.

“We like to think we control our lives,” Shepard shares softly. “The reality is most of the time- we don’t.”

His hand passes in a rub across his forehead as if this might wipe his troubles away.

“So much is left up to chance and sometimes _all_ of it sucks,” Shepard continues, no more at ease. It’s all so achingly personal, so desperately private in a very public place but this sentiment needs to come out.

Long overdue, in fact, so Shepard presses on.

“Where you’re born, who you are, _what_ you are-”  

Staring into the middle distance lets Shepard’s words more easily unfold, though he doesn’t need to see any of it to _feel_ he’s being watched. 

 “But none of that matters. What matters is what you become.”

His dirty fingers stay out of sight in his pocket, closing around the bit of metal and plastic there, clutching at it as if this is the only thing that can save him.

“The person I am right now-“ he begins anew. “I’ve… done things I’m not proud of-”

The stains on his soul are not as easily contained and they seep past his barriers, threatening to derail him entirely. Clattering dishes and the scrape of chairs sound muffled and he has no idea how much time has passed before a low rumble finishes so clearly for him.

“And you want that to change.”

Shepard returns to himself, meeting a face that’s gone grim and tight and eyes that burn-

He _knows_ , Shepard realizes.

This stranger could have been anything and everything and yet he knows what it is to be cornered, to have to fight and scream and bleed your way out.

Shepard recognizes the scars.

He’s got plenty of his own.

The question that wasn’t a question still needs an answer, so Shepard gives it.

“Yeah. I guess I do.”

The gaggle to Shepard’s left suddenly takes flight, boisterousness perfectly capable of breaking this fragile moment, disrupting this silence as they jostle past but they don’t. They can’t, not when these two men so caught up in observing each other for nuance in a way that’s so much more than simply looking, blind to their surroundings in sharing this quiet contemplation.

Alike yet unalike, Shepard thinks. He doesn’t know this stranger’s name, not really, not yet, but that’s just a small blip in the data when in the here and now, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. How rare it is to find such commonality at all, so much more to hit upon a connection like this, finding each other in the gutter.

Maybe chance isn’t such a bad thing after all.

An idea comes to Shepard and realization along with it so a decision is made.

It turns him hopeful, though it’s bittersweet. “Hey. Do you want to go somewhere? After we’re done here, I mean.”

Whatever dark place this young man went to in his thoughts, curiosity pulls him right back to the here and now, a veiled dose of skepticism along for the ride. “Well, that’s only _slightly_ vague.”

Shepard lets his smile fully unfurl and something pleasant flares within him to see some of that uncertainty fade from across the table.

“Sorry- that came out… odd,” he says in all earnestness and his apology connects them further.  “There’s a place a little off the beaten path that I go to now and again when I try to get my head on straight and-”

He pauses, wondering if he’s not about to push this fragile trust too far but he offers his sincerity with conviction.

“I kind of get the feeling you and I ended up in that alley tonight because we both needed some air.”

There. The invitation is laid out and it cannot be undone.  It is a risk, but one Shepard’s willing to take. Their paths cross at the moment, but what sits in the bloodied fist in his pocket once a blessing is now a curse that reminds him that they cannot travel on this road together for long.

Shepard waits and watches and waits some more, not sure what to make of the wide-eyed silence, offering himself up for the scrutiny he knows is coming because it would be what he himself would do.

And indeed it comes, searching full force for any hint of malice, any trace of deception and Shepard yields to it, willing himself into transparency.

The young man chews his food, thought in every bite.  He lets out a deep breath and Shepard lets one out with him.

“Well,” the man says slowly, deliberately and Shepard can’t help feeling that he gambled and lost.

“Okay,” comes just as slowly after and Shepard lights up in the smallest of grins that is no less exultant.

Squeezing his way from the table, the man answers with a Mona Lisa smile of his own.

“But let’s take a look at you first.”

Their bill is closed out with a generous tip and the wash room is their next destination for some emergency triage.

The room is tiny, barely enough room for one of them, much less two, and the mirror within it is small and near useless. Shepard twists this way and that before his reflection to somehow examine the back of his own head.  He blindly pokes at his injury until-

“Can I take a look?” the stranger asks and Shepard barely keeps his shiver in check at the delicate probe of fingertips against his swollen scalp.

“Cut is pretty deep but small, which is good,” the man murmurs from so close that his assessment tickles the back of Shepard’s neck. “Head wounds bleed a lot, but you can never be too careful.”

A wad of paper is torn from a dispenser, the faucet comes on, and a gentle hand cleanses the wound with care.

Shepard bows his head to make the messy work easier. “You seem to know a lot about this stu-“

He suppresses a hiss as a flare of pain catches him off guard.

“Sorry!”

The apology comes swiftly from the man tending to him but his hand keeps going, though slower, with more care.  “But it has to be done.”

“No worries,” Shepard follows up with ease. “This isn’t my first rodeo, and from how you act, it isn’t yours either.”

Now it’s the stranger that’s caught off guard, his surprise bathing Shepard in an exhalation that warms his skin.

“I’ve… had to patch people up once or twice.” The story spills from the man in rueful concession. “Myself included.” 

That last part comes out so guarded, so private that Shepard ignores the fresh sting of his wound to drag his eyes upward, catching his first good look at the clouded, troubled face in the mirror before the young man realizes he’s being watched.

Shepard ‘s worn that look himself before,  had the shit beaten out of him with nowhere to turn, only to crawl into the deepest, darkest hole he could find to give himself enough time to lick his wounds.

There’s no place to run in this cramped, awkward space even if they wanted to, but neither shy away. This moment of understanding coalesces, takes shape and passes between them. Words become these ponderous, redundant things for two reflections studying each other, sharing a mirror only to realize that perhaps they share something more than that-

The wash room door swings outward without preamble and it renders the two men immobile, except for peering back as one at who joins them.

“Whoa!” is the highly cogent exclamation that fires back at them and it’s one of the many from the flock of geese that fill the diner, though this guy has a hard time focusing  that suggests he may already started his fun for the night.

“Shit, don’t mean to cock block you guys!” he says, valiantly clinging to the door jam to blink at them in a chemically-induced haze.  “Lock the door next time you two want a quickie, okay?”

“Wh.. what are you- “

Shepard hears the protest from behind him, the young man who’d helped him so smoothly transforming into a stammering mess.  “We are totally _not_ -“

This fluster takes Shepard so off-guard that he would twist himself into knots to make sure he can see it firsthand.

Their uninvited guest doesn’t seem to notice and his prattle continues unabated. “Unless people walking in on you is your thing…  I won’t judge!” 

He’s able to focus a little for once and he sizes the two men up with a leer. “As you were, gentlemen! Just hurry up, huh?  Some of us gotta take a leak!”

And with that, the door shuts and the goose is gone, honking at the rest of his flock about his weak bladder loud enough for the dead to hear.

“What. The. Hell?” The young man beside Shepard is more offended than scandalized. “He thought we were-  We weren’t– This isn’t- That’s _absurd_! “

Shepard fails to join in on the conversation, distracted by the rush of color that turns the tips of the young man’s ears the perfect shade of crimson.

Silence hangs unattended in all its fumbling glory, Shepard too fascinated to tend to it and his scrutiny must be too stone faced because the young man goes redder still under his gaze.

“It’s absurd because we were just making sure you’re all right,” the man struggles to say, rushing to conclusions just as quickly as the words rush out of him.  “Not because someone wouldn’t find you attractive because you certainly _are_ -“

That gets Shepard’s attention and surprise makes him go blank at the admission.

“Okay, I am an idiot,” this young man says, suddenly all stiff and far too formal. 

And in the blink of an eye, the guy is gone, leaving Shepard alone in the wash room with his dismay

Not for long, because Shepard won’t let this fragile beginning fracture so easily and he blasts through the door to follow.

“Hey! Wait!” he shouts and the young man nearly makes his escape out the back exit when he hesitates.

It’s something at least and Shepard eagerly follows. What he isn’t prepared for is the child that pops into his path from nowhere and they collide, though Shepard tries his damnedest to avoid it. This reed of a girl barely reaches chest high on him and Shepard detaches his bulk as gently as he can.

“Sorry, kid, didn’t see you there-“ he tries, but he trails off into to nothing when his sincerity gets met with raw, visceral fear.

Does he know this kid? The young man bears witness by the exit, just as confused, while Shepard sifts through his memories and can’t find this little girl among them.

But he knows her expression. He wore it himself enough times at her age.

A flinch. An expectation of violence. All hope lost at the inevitability of a beating.

He remains stock still because he knows from experience to move would be disastrous.

With none of the horrors she anticipates forthcoming, the kid puffs up into a ball of bravado.

Shepard knows this, too.

“Fuck you!” she lashes out, hands disappearing into her pockets as if this might protect her. Her smooth, young face turns monstrous under an armor of loathing bitter enough to set Shepard back on his heels and this terrified creature takes off like a shot before her target can recover.

Shepard isn’t alone in his horror.

“What the hell was _that_ about?” the young man asks softly. He is not the only one who wants an answer to that question, but honesty is the only thing Shepard can reach for.

“I don’t know, but that kid deserves better than whatever she’s running from-”

“Or what she’s running to,” the young man finishes, pinched and silent until the young man who was once so eager to escape breaks down.

“Look,” he starts anew, dancing a clumsy dance from foot to foot that he might prepare him to flee as soon as he’s able.  “I didn’t buy dinner tonight in some fucked up ploy to get in your pants. I thought it would be nice to- … I don’t know what I thought but-.”

He turns but not before Shepard sees his face shutter closed and the man’s voice spills out as handfuls of gravel.

“You’re different. I like that. There’s no… ulterior motive here.”

A deep breath lets the young man reclaim some of his old stability by the barest thread. “Now that I’ve made a complete ass out of myself, I should find somewhere to crash for the night and let you have what’s left of your evening back in peace.”

Shepard reaches for him.  “Where d’you think _you’re_ going?” 

Contact creates a palpable thrill for them both.

“You said you’d come with me,” Shepard says in all seriousness.  None of this can be mistaken for a joke and he wants it that way. “Don’t back out on me now.”

The young man takes his turn at surprise and a silver of elation slips through the holes in his barriers.  “You’re sure?”

Shepard finally opens up in a smile. “Absolutely.”

A nudge lets Shepard close what distance came between them and their mutual relief doubles in shared warmth. They leave, so very nearly arm in arm, ready to return to the streets.

There are things yet to be done tonight and the city awaits.   


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for descriptions of violence and its consequences

 

Midnight is now a memory and the cold ends up no easier to handle so close to sunrise but that doesn’t really matter, not to Shepard, not with his teeth sunk deep into a plan.  Their tracks cut a path through freshly fallen snow but determination is what carries Shepard the rest of the way against the frost eating up his fingertips.

City blocks pass as quickly as their feet can carry them. Shepard knows where he’s going. He’s gone this way before, tread this same route a million times. This familiar destination waits for him as it always does, except that this time, he is not alone and _that_ is what is not familiar.

Using a sidelong glance, Shepard checks in on the young man with him that easily keeps pace, reading their new surroundings with a thoughtful eye, curious and unafraid at Shepard’s side, unperturbed by the bitter wind nipping at their heels.

The cold isn’t the only thing in the air and it’s something Shepard can’t quite verbalize, something he isn’t equipped to define. His bruised skull throbs in reminder that survival is the only language he knows, a lesson drummed into him as far back as he can remember. Society swept its unwanted behind a veil of the newest technology to keep its view unsullied. This fractured underbelly is the only normal Shepard has ever known.

The fool in him once sought out a family in the Reds but this was no family. He became the bastard he needed to be to keep food in his belly, life distilled down into a few words- eat, drink, fight, fuck or some permutation of all four.

And with each passing day the stakes go up and up and up. The smell of credits brought out more maggots like Markos, all too happy to run a shuttle full of guns and all too happy to put a bullet in your back and claim your share when you looked the other way.

It leaves him weary.

Either Shepard escapes this cage or risk becoming another monster, another Markos.

If you’d asked him yesterday, Shepard would say he had his shit figured out. His ticket out burns a hole in his pocket. Weeks of work, busting his ass, he’s got his best shot to break free but now-

But now, his answer no longer feels like enough and he doesn’t know _why_.

He craves direction, yes. He seeks purpose, yes but now he wants-

“Hey,” the young man breaks through, brows knit in the same concern shown back at the diner, and Shepard surfaces from his fugue wondering just how long he’s been staring. “You feeling OK?”

“Yeah,” Shepard answers, pouring into it every ounce of earnest truth he has. “Just fine.”

Those worried features smooth in satisfaction and relief flutters through Shepard along with it and holy _hell_ , not giving a flying fuck what other people think of him is what he’s used to and this… this _caring_ sure as shit is _not_.

Sometimes, not so familiar is not so bad.

Not far now from where they need to be and Shepard focuses his attention to the task before him. He stuffs his hands to gather the warmth from his pockets, keeping the chill away as best he can.

They descend down an expanse of stairs lined by ancient ceramic lined walls that somehow managed to hold up against flood and hurricanes and all the bullshit mankind could throw at it. The tiled mosaic calls back to the days before plastisteel and transparent concrete, the way through them delivering them into a cavern of sorts. Echoes magnify soft footfalls into a thunderous clatter, but heading underground provides some measure of shelter and for that Shepard is grateful.

This place is long forgotten by anyone the world cared about, the creep in sea level forced the city to abandon its tunnel system over a century ago. With new technology, the city moved those people it deemed worthy to the air, casting off its history, leaving it to the helpless, the homeless, the invisible. This lasted for a while before those in charge decided those that had nothing couldn’t have this either, heavy, rusted gates at the base of the stairs barring anyone’s way.

Now the station entrance holds nothing but trash, decades of detritus, and Shepard halts before food wrappers and empty bottles piling up undisturbed like some half-hearted offering before a chained off altar.

But Shepard knows better.

“When you said this was ‘off the beaten path’,” Shepard’s guest begins, breaking the silence and Shepard can hear the smile warming his words. “I was expecting something not quite as-”

Shepard throws a smirk over his shoulder and catches eyes tracking him in bemusement.

“Shitty?” Shepard finishes for him and the man lets out a puff of laughter from so close that it embraces them both in a cloud of steam.

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but you have to admit that your idea of a night out on the town is… different than most.”

Shepard laughs back in a small bark that is more than he usually permits.

It feels… good.

“The night is young,” he says with a cryptic eyebrow that is not lost on the young man watching so carefully. “Haven’t even gotten warmed up yet.”

The locks that bar their way belong in a museum, not a number pad or scanning interface in sight but this hasn’t slowed down Shepard before.

Well, not since the first time he found this place.

Memory is a funny thing. He remembers barreling past these dirty, dingy walls, but not the why or how, running from god knows who because of god knows what. Cops, a mark howling for blood, a rival gang. Trivial bullshit when you do it often enough and details are easy to lose when you’re sprinting through moments you’d rather forget.

But Shepard knows what came after. That always comes through crystal clear.

And so Shepard begins his routine. His hands move in a pattern born of necessity, retrieving the items hidden with familiarity earned through hours of practice.

The first lies pressed against the small of his back, seamlessly tucked into his waistband. The second- a blind section painstakingly sewn behind one pocket of his trousers holds another, masked by a jangle of credit chits. The third sits just outside his right ankle, secured deep within his boot.

It took blood and sweat and a fair share of luck to earn these pieces and it took even more to keep it that way. What he has isn’t pretty, isn’t top of the line but it’s all his. Trust was always in short supply because any part of this found by the wrong kind of person meant Shepard slept with one eye open or risk not waking up at all and when all you knew were the Reds, that was exactly the wrong kind of person.

He looks towards the man behind him who returns a small, quizzical smile.

Maybe now Shepard knows a wholly different kind of person.

Still, his back is turned as he begins to assemble but his efforts do not go unnoticed.

Waves of warmth come off his nosy guest as he leans in to examine Shepard’s doings. Curiosity ignites full blast at what he sees and the young man comes closer, hungry to see what Shepard holds.

“Is that- that’s a condenser coil. And a fabrication mini-module!”

Those aren’t words Shepard expects to hear and it grinds him to a halt. He studies the face studying him, searching for the fear, the avarice, the covetousness he’s seen a thousand times over between the haves and the have-nots.

But he finds none of those things and that butterfly feeling he can’t define hits him full force.

“Know a thing or two about omni-tools?” Shepard begins casually, already knowing the answer.

“Alliance grade, at least,” the young man confesses, gears spinning behind wide eyes that don’t waver. “Been a while since I’ve seen one of these. _Amazing_ pieces of tech! Never got to see top of the line even after passing quals because Vyrnnus _hated_ -“

Whatever story hides behind his words makes the man falter, color vanishing along with his enthusiasm.

Qualified on omni-tools? More than just some Alliance brat, then, if there’d been training.

And what the hell was a vyrnnus?

“Uh, so…. Just. Yeah.” The young man’s recovery is painful to watch but he tries to rally all the same, though this façade is thin as paper. “Where’d you pick this stuff up? The Alliance doesn’t exactly give these away.”

“Here and there,” Shepard answers more on instinct than any intent at evasion. Distracted hands continue their work by rote, fitting together piece by piece but curiosity has his own thoughts racing. “It’s a work in progress.”

He finally slaps the microframe home and that snaps his guest to attention.

“It’s been a while since… I’d like to… If you wouldn’t mind-“ the young man begins, stumbling down all avenues at once. With a shaky gesture towards the tool in Shepard’s hand, this Alenko tries to shape his request, but it only comes out in the sigh that reveals all of his wounds.

There’s that feeling again. The one Shepard can’t pin down.

He glances at what took him months of secrecy, of agony, and offers it without hesitation.

“Here.”

Holding on to his silence, the young man takes a moment to accept what is being given. He handles the hardware gently and with the gravitas Shepard knew he would. Shepard watches with a flicker of pride as the old vigor slowly returns from the man turning the omni-tool over and over in his hands.

“ _Wow_ , this is old,” the man murmurs to himself on first inspection. “ _Really_ old.”

Shepard should be angry at this but this bald faced truth entertains and pulls a bark of amusement from him. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Realization sinks in at what’s been said and an entertaining flush crawls up the throat of the young man as his tongue trips away. “That came out wrong. This mini-module is a first generation Aldrin Bluewire.”

His hands dance over the device in his eagerness to explain, intensity reinvigorating them both. “First gen omni-tools had a melee capability that they took out of the current models. The blades were too unreliable so they took the code out to debug it. They crippled the current generation across the board. It’ll be years before they get their shit together and bring it back. This thing is a _beast_!”

The end of his lecture depressurizes the young man with a sigh and he hands back the tool with no small degree reverence. “Looks like it’s been rebuilt from the ground up, so be careful with it. It can pack one hell of a punch.”

“I know,” Shepard says, lips curling into a small smile that he can’t keep to himself. He seals the tool’s clasp around his wrist and it whirs to life, forming an orange shield around his hand. “I rebuilt it.”

It sets Shepard back on his heels to watch delight and contrition war on the young man’s face.

“Should have guessed,” the man presses on with a hint of admiration. “Fire up a Bluewire put together wrong as fast as you did back there and you’d be missing a few fingers.”

Shepard keeps a neutral eye pointed at the man sizing him up, his self-preservation too entrenched to accept any of it as genuine.

He wants – _needs_ \- to believe, but the past left enough scars that his wants just don’t fit.

“You don’t seem too bothered by someone you just met waving around unpredictable military hardware,” Shepard throws out as casual as he can make it, not at all sure what he would do with an answer.

“Should I be?” the young man asks in return, echoing what seems like forever ago. “My mom taught me that when thinking things through, the best bet is to keep it simple.”

“Occam’s razor,” Shepard murmurs but he is not the only one to hear and it earns him a thoughtful nod before the young man continues.

“You’ve had plenty of opportunity to hurt me without dragging me down here if you really wanted to. And I’d carry around an omni-tool myself if I had to deal with assholes like Markos every day.”

A laugh tumbles out of Shepard and it shocks him how effortless this back and forth is. “Markos is a level of asshole all his own.”

The desire for clarity turns Shepard solemn and he meets the young man eye to eye with every bit of candor he has. “You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”

He leaves the young man to muse over the exchange, even though his own thoughts refuse to remain quiet.

He has to. They have a purpose here and there is little time to spare.

Shepard analyzes the ancient locks that bar their way. The omni-tool pulses a ghostly orange, listening to the fine muscle movements in his forearm until it forms a shape that’s long and thin.  

“And you’re right,” Shepard continues, back to practiced nonchalance. He fits the shimmering edge of the tool into the first lock. “This thing does have its uses.”

With three quick twists, the hunk of rusted metal springs apart. Not shattered or sheared, but picked open, as Shepard always made sure to do. The next two are just as easy, the omni tool reshaping at his command. He takes a deep breath as he sets the locks aside.

A laugh from the young man gets Shepard’s attention. “The cops must love you.”

Shepard holds back a sneer. “We’ve run into each other once or twice but the cops don’t give two shits what goes on in the wrong part of town.”

He leverages a strong push into the gate and the door reluctantly creaks open, leaving nothing between them and a cavern of echoes.

“Shall we?” Shepard asks, his omni-tool shifting yet again. The lock pick morphs and a torch takes its place. He takes point with light and longstanding familiarity and his guest follows him through the darkness

The burn in his thighs gets Shepard moving forward to keep the cold at bay, the thinness of his trousers offering little protection even here. Movement gets the pain to fade and if it gets them to the heart of this journey, then so much the better.

There is no glamor to this place on first glance. Filth paints the walls, centuries of soot caked on as far as the eye can see. Water lines stain the sides of the tunnel, telling their story of all too frequent flooding that led to ultimate abandonment long ago. Water drip drip drips through what’s left of the ceiling, inexorably adding to the trickle of sludge that runs by their feet. The centuries show their toll taken here just as they have in the city above, except no one gets to see this side of it but those few who bother to make this journey.

Fewer still realize it’s a journey worth taking when it could pass as a sewer-

A question pulls Shepard from his musings.

“What _is_ this place?”

No disgust where Shepard anticipates it. Instead, it’s all wonder and curiosity and it sets Shepard back on his heels that it pleases him as much as it does.

“Part of the old public transport system,” Shepard explains, even if he can’t explain anything else to himself at the moment. He directs his torch at a sign that is near invisible but for the light catching an old inlayed edge reading CITY HALL. “It’s seen better days.”

“They used to call them ‘subway’, right?” The young man lets his fingertips hover over the brick work, tracing the intricate mortar and stone without daring to come so close as to touch. “This must be centuries old.”

“Three of them,” Shepard confirms softly. “Give or take.”

They stand and study, neither knowing quite how much time goes by, but inside Shepard’s head is the countdown to sunrise and that count grows smaller than he would like.

“C’mon,” he urges. “There’s more to see.”

Decay cuts jagged scars deep into the cramped hallways they pass through, but the stone that makes up this labyrinth still stands in narrow archways lined by white and red tile. Knowing what lies ahead pulls Shepard forward, just as the even, measured breaths behind him draws him back.

And that little flutter comes back again. The one that Shepard doesn’t wholly get, only this time it’s not so little anymore. It rises up in a jumble in his head, steeped in anticipation and a sense of urgency.  

One last hallway to navigate and his heartbeat quickens along with his step. The sliver of light they’ve been chasing all this way appears and Shepard moves quicker still.

This person, this stranger he barely met, needs to know what Shepard knows before tomorrow, this mystery buried deep beneath the city needs to be shared even when there’s no time to figure out _why_. Not really. Not anymore because the little chit in his pocket means tomorrow..

Tomorrow?

_Fuck_.

Tomorrow is _today_.  

Everything changes _today_.

His fist burrows into that pocket because he needs the touch of it in his hand and-

It’s _gone_.

His pocket- _the_ pocket- that he checked and checked and checked…. is empty.

The cocksure, confident Shepard that stepped out of that diner goes up in flames and the blinding heat gives rise to his old savagery.

Try to crawl your way out of a hole and a second of negligence leaves him wounded and surrounded by wolves.

Red wolves.

He stands paralyzed at the threshold. The entire journey here, he plays at being the Shepard he strives to become, but now… now at the threshold, the Shepard of old throws up a blockade meters thick.

Stupid, _sloppy_ sentimentality he thought quashed long ago makes him god damn careless. Was freezing his balls off to bring some stranger here, crawling through the shadows losing his one clear shot at starting over? Would have been better to play it safe- to do the usual when someone caught his eye- haul this guy home and fuck him through the mattress, not doing whatever… bull shit notion of whatever the fuck this was.

What the _hell_ did he think was going on here?

So this guy saved his ass and he saved his. So fucking what. An evening of sweet words mean exactly jack and shit when you were used to the Reds and this should be no different.

Every man for himself. Trust is for the deluded.

The love tap Markos gave him drums in cadence with his heart.

One shot at freedom and Shepard missed. How ironic he’d brought them to a mausoleum for a dead era to find that out-

A gasp of surprise at his back knocks the wind out of him

“Oh…oh my _god_.”

This exultation pulls Shepard out of his tailspin and he discovers the young man who uttered it turned to stone, staring agape at what Shepard knows waits over his shoulder.

Shepard steps forward to enter and _breathes_ -  
  


Beyond the doorway, what had been narrow and confining unfurled into a curved wide open platform, walls trimmed in a brocade of opulent coppers and greens and whites. Tarnished bronze fittings joined with stone and mortar, each laid with precision across vaulted ceilings, color weaving with no beginning or end. Romanesque arches rise over them to meet directly above their heads, coming together in black iron and glass wrought into a Victorian filigree finer than lace, made by hands and skills long since lost.

The station has a story, so Shepard tells it.

“This all got built in the early 1900’s. 40 years later, they closed it- the newer trains were too big for the platform.”

Shepard breathes again to taste the air for what he wonders might be the last time. “It became a ghost.”

The air tastes fresh, sweetly free of the foul stench of the tunnels. Through the skylight, dogwoods stripped bare by a harsh winter proudly wield their branches, ignoring the sterile city that walls them in, instead standing guard over the past. Not every pane of stained glass survives but still nature reclaims this space in dogwood petals clinging to the vibrancy of fall dancing their way through the columns of light.

“It’s… this is…,” the young man struggles, flushed and wide eyed and Shepard understands.

He understands because what he feels- what he _felt_ \- in this timeless place reflects back at him through the lens of a handsome face. This simple connection chips at the doubts that bind him but these chains are old and so very heavy.

Now, what Shepard finds in these ancient walls is a reminder of his foolishness.

“Thank you. _Again_ ,” Shepard hears and this he can’t comprehend, for gratitude is something he is unaccustomed to at all, much less twice in one night. So much _give_ when all anyone’s ever done for him is _take_.

“For what?” he asks reflexively, stepping deeper into this ancient sanctum. He forgot the cold but the cold hasn’t forgotten him and the burn in his calves forces him in into motion, the ache crawling up the back of his skull refusing to relent.

“For sharing this place.” The young man follows at his own pace, eyes only for the ceiling as he carves details into memory.

Toes tingling, Shepard casts about for a place to ease the weight off of his feet. “It’s a place that needs some who can enjoy it.”

He spots a pipe jutting from an alcove –hy- hyrant, hydrant or something? A planet with little drinkable water to spare stopped using it to put out fires a century ago but the infrastructure remains and Shepard will take it, perching atop the relic to hammer the blood back into his quads with a fist but instead trying to chase away the blood bashing at his temple.

An ancient light fixture seems to soak up the young man’s attention but the soft glance he gives Shepard betrays him. “Is this a regular thing for you?”

“Breaking and entering?” Shepard finishes, trying on a cavalier grin, but the stain of reality marks his hands and the reminder drains the life out of him. “Maybe.”

“Not _that_ ,” the young man swats away the fragments of a broken joke with a derisive snort and some of the ache in Shepard’s skull goes with it. “I’m talking ‘showing complete strangers a night on the town’. I mean, this place is _incredible_. My luck usually isn’t this good so I have to know- what made you decide to bring m-“

Whatever he intends to say aborts mid-thought when the young man finally takes a good look at Shepard through the darkness. “Something wrong?”

Genuine attention is a balm that surprises Shepard into a smile that is blunted but bittersweet. “Been better.”

Brows do their own little dance as the young man processes this and it manages to make him even more handsome. “It’s not just your head, is it?”

The young man circles in on a slow approach and that little flutter that’s dogged Shepard all night returns with sudden force to throw him off balance.

What is this?

Normal is self-serving. Normal is nobody cares, especially about some scrawny street trash. Normal is keep your head down.

Normal is… not this.

Perhaps not-normal is why Shepard wanted out all along.

“Topside, you couldn’t wait to get down here,” the young man wonders aloud, boots echoing as he joins Shepard within the alcove. “Now, it’s different. _You’re_ different.”

Pointed accusation is what Shepard waits for but pensive consideration is what Shepard gets. “So what changed?”

“Nothing,” Shepard shoots back, defaulting to practiced stoicism but this dances too close to the truth and his armor snaps.

“Nothing changes,” he continues, forcing his words around something hot and sharp clawing its way from his throat. “Just like this place, just like-.”

He can’t continue while he desperately tries to beat this show of weakness back into its cage, so the young man sinks to his heels at Shepard’s feet, weighed down by a sigh and a soul worth of empathy

“Tell me,” the young man says in the softest, simplest words that wrap around Shepard like a warm blanket.

No, no, _no._

A beating is something Shepard understands, given and gotten a hundred times over. Threats, braggarts, or straight up silence- he knows these things better than anything in the world but this murmur is too tender, too laced with concern, too much to handle and it pushes Shepard right over the edge until the truth spills out of him.

“I wanted out,” Shepard begins, chomping at the bit to get this ugliness out of him. “Out of the Reds, out of this life-if you could even call it that.”  

“Go on.”

This urging keeps Shepard grounded. “I enlisted. Or tried to.”

Patience waits and watches without judgment, so Shepard continues.

“The Alliance doesn’t appreciate it when you’ve got… a history with law enforcement.”

The snort Shepard gets eases the tension threading through his temples, allowing himself a fragmented smile.

“I got what I needed, though,” he says, weeks of labors marching through his thoughts. “Got my hearing, got a suitability waiver. The Reds knew something was up when I started keeping to myself, but if they thought I’d be a problem, it didn’t matter. Pretty soon, I’d be free and clear.”

A turbulent cloud passes over him and he lets it go past. “Got accepted for enlistment. Serviceman Shepard, reporting for duty. Supposed to ship out in a couple of hours, in fact… but I fucked up”

Shepard stares into the skylight, because the oncoming sunrise is easier to take than the eyes taking him apart piece by piece. “You think you’ve got everything figured out. Bust your ass, like they did with this place. Everything’s under control and then from one heartbeat to the next-“

The sharp intake of breath pulls Shepard back into the alcove to find a haunted face finishing his sentence.

“What was supposed to be under control suddenly… isn’t.”

Recognition brings light to the darkness and it is a living, breathing thing. It speaks and it says one thing.

You are not alone.

Burden shared is a burden lessened. Funny that something so simple could hold so much power.

A rumble from the young man breaks their silence. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“It’s stupid, really. I lost the one thing I shouldn’t have. The one thing that would get my sorry ass on a shuttle and away from here.”

Light dawns behind the young man’s eyes, but it shines through as sadness. “Your enlistment chit? They won’t let you within 10 meters of a base without one.”

Shepard bows his head under the weight of this. “They’ll issue me a new one, but even if it’s tomorrow, it might be too late.”

Maybe his old bolt hole would work, he wonders. The one on the other side of town. He had a few credits hidden away, not much but…

The quirk of eyebrows reveals the young man’s next question is genuine. “Too late? I know the Alliance is slow, but-”

“What happened tonight in the alley-” Shepard cuts in, baring his thoughts for all to see. The pressure that’s been building in his head, his heart rushes out of him in a weary sigh, leaving him as empty as his pockets. “They’re going to keep gunning for me. The Reds want me gone. I’m a dead man walking.”

Every idea the young man has spills out of him all at once as he explodes onto his feet.

“Was it in the alley?” he flounders desperately and Shepard can barely take it in. Is this… is this distress for _him_? “Or the diner?”

The man pauses mid-spasm, caught in a moment’s distraction, but he shakes it off and presses his point.

“We can go back! Retrace our steps!”

Shepard only watches because, in this moment, it is all that he is capable of.

Someone thinks he matters. Someone thinks he’s worth fighting for.

It’s not something he’s used to.

“Or you can come with me. Or talk to the cops. If they know you’ve been trying to keep your nose clean, maybe-“

“Maybe” Shepard concedes, even though they both know that to be a lie.

He rises from the cold metal that leeches the heat from his body, seeking out a different warmth at the edge of the alcove. “Maybe this was all worth it.”

Shepard stands alongside the young man who remains a tight ball of concern. “You see that?”

His gaze falls to the growing patterns on the ground outside the alcove and it draws the young man to him. Together, they watch the new day pass through the stained skylight, painting the station in vibrant hues of light.

“It needs to be handed down,” Shepard continues softly, nose burning, feet freezing but he doesn’t feel a thing in this simple moment of serenity. “To make sure it won’t be forgotten. Kinda like me.”

Toe to toe they stand and the station is no longer a priority.

“And I think I got the right guy for the job,” Shepard finishes with a smile that pours out every ounce of heartbreak.

They are impossibly close and the young man won’t stand down, offering up a wealth of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

Leaning in brings Shepard even closer. “Don’t be.”

There it is. The spark, the flutter, the something. They’re trapped here, sharing the steam they create in the air they breathe, ridiculous padding of their winter cloths making for a ridiculous barrier, but their faces are enough at centimeters apart.

Pores. Eyelashes. Long. _Really_ long eyelashes. Shepard tries to commit this to memory, for whatever it’s worth. The dimple in the chin. A surprising scar that sits just below the split on the bottom lip from tonight, thin and faded over time, though the story that goes with it probably hasn’t done the same.

The young man lets out a hum at the long slow exhalation that tickles his cheek and it is a beautiful thing, an affirmation of life that Shepard needs.

How different this is, Shepard thinks. He could do with this sort of different.

He wants to hear it again, but the young man beats him to it, hooded eyes and parted lips and drawing in for what looked like a kiss-

What sounds like a distant, electric whine brings the young man to a halt and he taps his knuckles against Shepard’s chest.

“H… hold that thought,” the young man stammers, turning crimson as he pulls away. “Don’t go anywhere, really, because… because… this is going somewhere and I _definitely_ want to find out where that is but...” He doesn’t stray far, his hand maintaining contact, refusing to let Shepard go.   “Did you hear something? I thought I did and I- _Shit! Get dow -_ “

A high pitched whine precedes the strike of a miniature lightning bolt from nowhere, the blast hitting the young man high up on the shoulder and-

That same brilliant blue envelops the young man as it had done in the alley, though this time, there’s no beauty in it, only agony as the young man trembles and shakes, the blue flickering in and out as his whole body short circuits. When the lightning storm is done, he collapses to all fours, wretching from the very depths of his soul but it’s when he looks up from emptying the contents of his stomach that stops the breath in Shepard’s throat.

Pale and shaking, there is no focus to the man’s gaze as he casts about blindly, his handsome face a frightening rictus with eyelid and lips drooping down one side, skin spasming in a morbid dance along his cheek.

“Hot damn, Johnny!”

A split second snapshot is all Shepard has time for before he must throw himself out of the line of fire.

_Markos_. How the _fuck_ -

‘How’ doesn’t matter. With Markos involved, it’s the ‘what’ that decides if anyone makes it out alive.

Blue aftershocks light up the station, but they grow weaker and weaker until the young man collapses into a pile and goes dark. A stroke… or… seizure or who the fuck knows, but Shepard’s got to get them the fuck out of here.

“Aww, did I break your pet freak, Shepard?” Markos crows, far too pleased with what he has wrought. “Whoops.”

Shepard keeps to the alcove, recognizing the electrical whine of a neural weapon now for what it is as it powers up again.  

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, Markos?” Shepard calls out, planning upon plans, scanning the ground at his feet for something, anything. “Your parole officer’s gonna be pissed. Or maybe you don’t want to explain to her how you broke your nose-”

“Shut the fuck up, Shepard!”

The echo as Markos roars tells Shepard one thing, at least, and that is the fool hasn’t moved. In the darkness, Shepard finds a chunk of brick and it would have to be enough.

“C’mon out, Shepard,” Markos snarls out at him, too much of a coward to do more than just talk. “I just want to talk, Johnny-boy!”

Shepard’s knuckles go white around the fragment in his hand. “What do you really want, Markos? You know your brain doesn’t like when you make it think.”

“You thought you could keep your little secret, Shepard,” Markos bleats out in a blast of pure ego. “But the Reds got eyes everywhere. You of all people should know that-”

Now’s his chance and Shepard sends the rock high and wide, its impact off clanging off the far wall like a bell. The same electrical whine fires up again, sending a wild misfire chasing after the stone as Markos curses up a panicky storm, but a few seconds is all Shepard needs. He reaches out from the alcove to grab fistfuls of the young man’s jacket, hauling them both to temporary safety.

Shaking hands grab at Shepard’s shoulders as the young man comes back to life, but his attempt to speak is a meaningless mumble spilling through the side of his mouth that still works.

“It’s okay,” Shepard murmurs, even though everything is the exact opposite of okay. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Instinct wants him to add “I promise” but he knows he can’t.   He props the young man up as best he can and sets to work.

“Too bad the Reds don’t have a few extra brain cells for you, too, Markos,” Shepard shouts, straining to hear any scrap of movement. Okay. Target 10 meters off to his left. No line of sight without getting a neural overload straight to the face. “Can’t be easy working with just the one.”

Markos growls and Shepard delights in hearing him shamble closer. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, dontcha Shepard?”

“Smarter than you, but that’s not saying much,” Shepard fires back, turning to the only other thing available to him in the alcove.

“Very funny, asshole.” The warped chuckle Markos lets out sets Shepard’s teeth on edge. “One of the new recruits found something of yours back at that shitty diner you like so much. It makes for some… interesting reading.”

God _damn_ it.

That girl. The one with terror in her eyes.

Little Red Pick Pocket.

Anger nearly boils Shepard over, but he can’t, he won’t, he _needs_ to stay calm. “Making kids do your dirty work, huh, Markos?”

With a wiggle of his wrist, his omni tool fires up, warming the alcove in a faint orange glow as he moves towards the hydrant. “Were you supposed to come here alone or did you run out of ten year olds to take care of me for you?”

“Fuck you, Shepard!” and the two steps forwards is precisely what Shepard wants to hear. “You always act like you’re better than the rest of us, but you’re dirty, Shepard! Dirty as they come! You don’t get rule the roost, then turn on your family and walk away!”

The omni tool shapes itself over a huge bolt seated within the hydrant just how Shepard wants but Markos needs a little more pushing first. “You’re too much of a coward to make this about loyalty, Markos. So why are you here? What does coming after me do for a chicken shit like you?”

He ignores the fit of rage with his name on it, firing off his own curses on the rusted metal stubbornly refusing to yield to as much torque as the omni-tool could give it.

“Sh.. shh…. She-pard.”

It shocks him to find the pale young man watching him squint-eyed, as if what little light made it to the alcove was the brightest mid-day sun.

“Hhh… hii-“

Sweat shines on the broken man’s forehead as he struggles to say more. His hands try to make up the difference, pawing at his own wrist before slamming a fist into his palm again and again.

Of course.

“The Reds need a _real_ leader!” Markos blasts out, awash in his own hubris. “Not some traitor that leaves ‘em hanging to go running off to the Alliance!”

“You want the Reds, Markos? “Shepard winds up with a flick of the wrist and the omni-tools fabricator gives him the hammer he asks for. “You can have ‘em.”

The strike hits the bolt with everything he has and the sound rings out like a church bell.

A slow drip starts from the hydrant and it fills Shepard with a lupine joy.

“What you playing at, Shepard?” What bravado Markos had runs dry.

“The drums.” Shepard takes another huge swing and the impact shoots up his arm, sending his teeth ringing in his skull from the gong echoing through the station. “Not bad for my first lesson.”

A spray spews out at the weakened seal and Shepard ignores the icy water soaking into his trousers to attack the bolt once more. C’mon. _C’mon_.

“Enough of your bull shit, Shepard!” Markos lets out in a howl but he’s close enough to the alcove that the air reeks of fear. “The Reds are mine now.”

Out of time.

_Three_

Soaking wet clothes set off involuntary shivers that slow Shepard down, but the bolt starts to turn as the icy cold saps his strength and he persists, drenching him even more. Almost… almost-

_Two_

A long shadow spills across the alcove, armed with an electric whine just audible over the fountain Shepard created.

_One_

No time, no way for Shepard to duck with his muscles seizing up in the cold, keenly aware of the weapon leveled at his head, the squeal as it charges, but that’s not the important part, not at all, because the bolt comes free and-

_Yes_

Water geysers from the hydrant, a fetid, stagnant rush moving along paths it hadn’t in centuries and Shepard shapes the omni-tool again, something smooth and flat that guides the water where Shepard wants it to go because there’s no time left at all and-

The screaming begins.

The howls are not the worst of it, even though the agony that rings out through them speaks of unbearable pain.

It’s the smell.

Flesh searing, smoke filling the alcove as skin charred to blackness when the energized weapon shorts out in Markos’s hand.

Shepard wills his legs into motion, but the weight of his sodden, freezing clothes leave him slow, too slow. He throws a punch but Markos froths like a rabid dog and the solid blow does nothing but enrage the beast further. Melted flesh traps the useless pistol within fused fingers, but Markos makes the pistol not-so-useless with wild flailing and Shepard thinks ‘well, that’s gonna leave a mark’ when his scalp splits under the very first hit.

Blood turns Shepard blind in one eye, but blinking it away is impossible when his ears ring too hard to notice. Too much. Too much and his head throbs both front and back and cold and wet and and he wants to react to the arm wrapped around his neck, Markos keeping him pinned and out comes the knife that Markos loves so much, and Shepard gets away with just a slash to his soaking wet sleevebut there’s no air in this struggle, no way and Shepard fights for oxygen, elbows trying for sternum, clawing for shattered nose, for ears, for eyes to be free but Markos is beyond pain, beyond reason, there’s no way, no way except.. except Shepard drives his fist under Marko’s chin and the muscles in his forearm move before he knows what he’s doing-

A sound fills Shepard’s ear, bringing the bite of bile to the back of his throat- a squelch of wet and crunch of bone and sticky, hot blood rushes down his back, but it’s not just blood is it, this… this gore that covers him is not his. Sudden weight across his back–dead weight, his brain supplies- nearly drags Shepard down but the arm around his neck goes limp and air returns some of his strength at least, though it is filled with the tang of copper and salt.

It’s only once he relaxes that the omni-tool that answered his call retracts its long, piercing blade and the… object it impaled falls to the ground.

_Corpse_.

His first. A first he never wanted and the trembling that rips through Shepard is not just from the cold.

What… what was he supposed to do now? There was something…

Blue. He remembers warm eyes and beautiful blue.

Shepard stumbles over his own feet, but he can’t feel them anyway and he topples like a felled tree.

Sleep. Coldcoldcold. Sleepy sleep but something about sleep right now seems wrong though his body calls for it, every part of him screaming for rest. His shivering stops and that sets off warning bells that Shepard can’t answer.

“Shepard?”

Ha. He remembers now. Blinks away the blood clouding his eye to find a drained, handsome face. Fingers brush his cheek, and god, the touch is _scalding, burning hot_ or ha ha maybe Shepard’s cold and the young man studying him looks sad. Sad face. No good.

The young man fumbles for something… a comm… comm… comm-u-ni-ca-tor, that’s the word, hard word, hard to think.

“Police? Help… I need help.” Words come with difficulty to the young man, just as Shepard struggles to understand them. “There’s… there’s been an… an accident. Two… two men. One injured. The other… he’s dead-“

Whatever is said on the other end lights the young man in fury. “ _I’m not drunk_! Or high or whatever you think, just… _please_! It’s… it’s in an old abandoned subway station. I think it’s called City Ha- Hello? _Hello_! _Damn_ it!”

“Won’t come,” Shepard tries, his tongue too thick for his mouth. Want sleep. Close eyes. “Never do. Not for us.”

Sit up. Floor wet. Up up up, no sleep but muscles don’t listen brain don’t listen-

The world tilts on its axis as he gets hauled upright and arms become everything he knows, wrapping him in a cradle of warmth, pure, blissful warmth and Shepard gasps as his mind thaws out from the cold, cold mire that bogs it down. His eyes flutter open and-

Everything is blue, magnificent blue, as if he sits at the heart of a star looking out and-

A haggard breath sounds in his ear and the warmth fades as soon as the blue fizzles out of existence.

“Can’t… hold it long-“ The young man shakes in effort, managing a few words through his own private hell. “Not now… not yet.”

“We need out of here,” Shepard manages through chattering teeth, the cold swift to return, and the young man silently agrees.

Neither is much stronger than the other in this moment, but together, they fight to rise and it is only moving together they succeed.

 


End file.
